From very young, I dreamt of living in "the countryside". I was a suburban lass, born wailing out a hearty cry to the busy world around me. Stories of my parents' and grandparents' pastoral past in rural Groningen, of landscapes with wide horizons and roads or waterways flanked by swaying "heide" always filled me with a strange longing for something that I could not quite place.
During my early teens my parents took us to a cattle farm in the Limpopo region for our annual holiday. It was one of those things that really surprised me about them, especially my Father. I thought I had them “figured out”, but once in a while, they’d do something so completely out of the ordinary, that I got to see the people behind the folks who were trying to raise me from such a seemingly pragmatic and practical distance. I think “Pappa” also had a longing. He never completely left his “Vaderland”, the deep-green country and it's old masters, canal towns, polders and windmills. He missed his family, and the wry Dutch humour and culture, which was not quite understood or appreciated in his adoptive country.
I was the only child left in the nest and my cousin went with as company. I loved the gentle feel of wide open spaces, not packed with sun-browned bodies and beach umbrellas. Our sea-side holidays were fun, but this was so real. Nature breathed slowly and softly here. My Father liked telling us (probably when we asked for something they could not afford), that they were so poor, that even in winter time, the children would walk bare footed through the snow to get to school. They would sprint across the frozen fields, occasionally stopping to bury their stiff toes into steaming cow-pats for warmth. I imagine it must have been a rather pungent classroom...
It was a hot December and we had fashionable “tekkies” on our feet, but I had to try the “koeie-plak” (cow-pat) experience for myself. It happened so, that one of the bulls took offence to us hopping in their droppings in his field, and we got chased off in a tumble of giggles and smelly feet.
And so my dream of living somewhere where life was unhurried and real, gained momentum. At first I thought I would marry a farmer and become a “plaas-tannie”. I would learn to ride a horse bare-back, milk cows, and cook jam, and this all before daybreak! But then I have never been an enthusiastic early riser, prefer the front end of a cow and dislike the smell of fruit cooking.
I considered becoming a country vet, but was discouraged by my biology teacher as well as relatives, who thought I was not “tough” enough. My options were running out. Impressionable and still rather insecure, I let people convince me that my dreams where immature and unrealistic. So I settled for mediocre and safe, in the stead of challenging but rewarding.
I was raised with the belief that common sense is next to holiness. "Wees prakties en doe gewoon" - the family creed... "How do you solve a problem like Maria?..." Lah-dee-dah. I did not know how to be practical. It was a concept as foreign as generosity to a miser.
When the possibility of marriage came along, it seemed like one “practical” way to get out of having to decide what to do with my life – or to let others dictate what my future should look like. I did not even know how to drive a car, or cook a decent meal. But I had found an escape from indecisiveness, boredom and uncertainty, and ill-fated as it proved to be, it seemed good enough at the time.
I was the only child left in the nest and my cousin went with as company. I loved the gentle feel of wide open spaces, not packed with sun-browned bodies and beach umbrellas. Our sea-side holidays were fun, but this was so real. Nature breathed slowly and softly here. My Father liked telling us (probably when we asked for something they could not afford), that they were so poor, that even in winter time, the children would walk bare footed through the snow to get to school. They would sprint across the frozen fields, occasionally stopping to bury their stiff toes into steaming cow-pats for warmth. I imagine it must have been a rather pungent classroom...
It was a hot December and we had fashionable “tekkies” on our feet, but I had to try the “koeie-plak” (cow-pat) experience for myself. It happened so, that one of the bulls took offence to us hopping in their droppings in his field, and we got chased off in a tumble of giggles and smelly feet.
And so my dream of living somewhere where life was unhurried and real, gained momentum. At first I thought I would marry a farmer and become a “plaas-tannie”. I would learn to ride a horse bare-back, milk cows, and cook jam, and this all before daybreak! But then I have never been an enthusiastic early riser, prefer the front end of a cow and dislike the smell of fruit cooking.
I considered becoming a country vet, but was discouraged by my biology teacher as well as relatives, who thought I was not “tough” enough. My options were running out. Impressionable and still rather insecure, I let people convince me that my dreams where immature and unrealistic. So I settled for mediocre and safe, in the stead of challenging but rewarding.
I was raised with the belief that common sense is next to holiness. "Wees prakties en doe gewoon" - the family creed... "How do you solve a problem like Maria?..." Lah-dee-dah. I did not know how to be practical. It was a concept as foreign as generosity to a miser.
When the possibility of marriage came along, it seemed like one “practical” way to get out of having to decide what to do with my life – or to let others dictate what my future should look like. I did not even know how to drive a car, or cook a decent meal. But I had found an escape from indecisiveness, boredom and uncertainty, and ill-fated as it proved to be, it seemed good enough at the time.
After a period of disbelief and shock, I started discovering things about myself that had been suppressed for so long, I did not even realise they existed. A new strength and confidence started growing, like the first trickling after a desert thunderstorm.
Some time before the split, a longing to give God the rightful place in my heart had begun. What I rebelled against as a youth was beckoning for me to return. The clear ringing of church bells on a Sunday morning seemed to echo the hollowness of my spirit. I started reading my bible again, the hunger growing. I was baptised shortly before our marriage relationship started deteriorating. In retrospect, I can admit that this was probably where the division started. It initiated a spiritual battle in our home, which neither of us understood or was mature enough to deal with.
But with God at the helm again, and wounds healed to gentle scars, I discovered my “wings”. It was tentative flight at first, but like with any fledgling there was no holding back once I’d stepped out of the “nest”. I obtained my driver’s licence (on the first attempt "nogal") at the age of 34! With the kind help of my family, I bought a dear old VW Beetle. Purring down the freeway with the wind in my face, I felt the sweet elation of being independent for the first time in my life.
It would have been a harsh and hard time without the persistent love of my family and friends. I remember my first birthday on my own, when a group of precious woman drew around me to make the occasion beautifully memorable. We laughed, cried a little and probably cried a little more, when my sister arrived with an enormous bunch of scarlet gladioli, amazingly similar to the second bridal bouquet that rested in the crook of my arm many years later... People made sure that I never felt forgotten, drew me into their social circles, offered lifts while I was "wheel-less", cooked meals and gave financial support when I was “down and out”.
During this time I re-connected with my sister and a deep friendship developed, which has stood the test of time and distance. I am so much richer for having her in my life. My two brothers are like the stern and starboard of a schooner, total opposites as far as character and appearance are concerned, but both a vital, meaningful part of my life.
Four years of the charms and challenges of being single at the age when friends were raising children, passed. At times there would be an unexpected ache, as I watched young couples with their small children, caught up in the happy chaos of family togetherness.
But I grew to cherish who I was, without someone to boost or bash my self-worth. I discovered that my life was valued by God and therefore invaluable. I had sadly not come to a full realisation of the eternal value that was placed on my life. Or the dear price that was paid at the cross to attain it.
I continued basking in the glow of being a married woman again. I was with someone who valued me enough to commit himself into a binding and sacred relationship. This sustained me to the dangerous extent that I lost sight of the fact that he was still a fallible man, and the deep need for my Redeemer was pushed to the background.
"Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes”. (Isaiah 54:2)
My husband and I continued working at the same parastatal company, but found our work situation to be frustrating. On top of that there was too much compromise as far as the work ethic was concerned. I found various ways to “lift” the numbing monotony of secretarial and administrative duties. Creativity was another layer of the “new me” that I was discovering, and it flourished with the muse of love in my life.
I was given some mosaic and custom jewellery assignments. It was then that we resolved to take our first bold step towards freedom. After what seemed to be a lifetime of office-work - I resigned. A spacious wood-built studio went up in our leafy garden and “Maya’s gems” was born. I felt like a soda fountain, dizzy and light with bubbles rushing into all the old stale places. It did not bring in as much income as we hoped, but it was deeply gratifying. I was free!
A while before this came to be, my husband (fiancee at the time) suggested a holiday to a remote mountain village in the Eastern Cape, which he had “happened upon” during a business trip. He has always loved discovering places, and is a mental traveller of note. We both felt a tantalising thrill at the onset of a ramble into the unknown.
We turned out to be the finest of travelling partners. The journey to anywhere has since always been an unmissable part of the holiday for us (although more challenging since travelling with two small additions on the back seat...)
There is something really memorable about passing through small towns and watching the changes and shifting moods of the landscape through a dusty window, all adding to the authenticity of road travel. Fragments of other people’s lives drift by. Someone’s laundry aflutter in the wind. At times allowing an intriguing glimpse into the occupants' lives or livelihood. People decked out in their finest stepping lightly in the dust or ambling along in the hope of a lucky hitchhike. Children and scrawny dogs hugging the roadside for want of a better place the play. "Padkos” is another roamer's treat, and after many years of journeying together, we still prefer home-made "sarmies" with a flask of dark “koffie-kapitaal” to One-Stop meals.
A faded sign finally signalled the way toward our mountain destination and we turned onto the road less travelled. Negotiating cattle, goats, sheep, donkeys, African dogs and stray swines is an unavoidable part of the final stretch leading up to village. The Xhosa people still place great value on keeping livestock, even though the majority of these are “free-range” - herded and left to forage in a free and unstructured way.
I think too many episodes of Heidi and memories of Maria singing on the slopes of the Untersberg in the “Sound of Music”, shaped my expectations of what I would encounter once we reached “the top”. The dusty road seemed endless and I was waiting for my vision to be filled with majestic peaks and undulating green hills. I was therefore more than a little surprised when we arrived at a cheerfully painted sign announcing: “Welcome to Hogsback”. The road was level as a librarian’s gaze and the mountain itself still hidden from sight.
Since I was still oblivious to all this, I remember feeling pangs of disappointment. It seemed so remote – a bit “harsh” for my suburban tastes. Our holiday cottage still afforded no view of the mountains. It lay nestled in a small glen, with a tall bank of trees rising up on the one side of it and some struggling specimens on the other, bent over at odd angles due to the high winds.
We were met by one of the owners, bare-chested and perspiring. He paused briefly from mowing the grass, to greet and welcome us. His down to earth but kind manner and quirky sense of humour made me smile inwardly. He briefed us on a few practical issues and his last remark was: “Should you run out of gas and find yourself naked in an ice-cold shower, you may scream as loudly as you like, no-one will hear you...”. I was won over. This was going to be different, and that suited me just fine... Little did I know that this dear and gentle man would become our neighbour, and that our friendship and his proximity would be sustaining and “cheering to the extreme” (borrowing his own phrase).
The rondawel proved to be compact and homely – just what we needed and no more. It had a fireplace, which I did not think we would have a need of in the middle of October... Since the property was quite a distance from the village itself, it was secluded but very tranquil.
The nights were sooo dark, something this “gall” from the suburbs struggled to get used to. It made no difference whether my eyes were open or shut, I could see just as little either way. There were no burglar bars, the only door was a third glass, and I found it hard to fall asleep. The night closed in slowly with an alien silence, the type of silence that seemed to pierce your ears with the absolute absence of sound. A sudden, "tinny" sound very near to the cottage almost made me jump out of my skin. It was like a bizarre ring tone, and I was already imagining a night stalker, come down from his liar. Drawn by the smell of city-chutzpah and affluence. (Would have been a rather foolish one though, who forgets to turn his cell phone off whilst on the prowl...) I finally fell asleep from travel tiredness and by reciting Psalm 23 (The Lord is my Shepherd), a trusted and fail-proof way to keep fear at bay.
The next day I enquired rather furtively about the “noise in the night” and the owners smilingly confirmed that it belonged to none other than a rare type of a chirping frog. I felt more than a bit silly and decided to put my city fears to rest for the time being. That night we sat outside in the moonlight with our djembe drums, and I danced a fire dance under the starry dome. It was an endless roof of burning lights that stretched from horison to horison.
The following morning I woke up ever so gently, and lay drinking in the sweetness of the new dawn. There was the lowing of cows in a distance, the cocky crow of a rooster and the sound of water tumbling over rocks. I felt tears trickling out of the corners of my eyes onto the pillow, and I choked with a longing to wake up like this for the rest of my life.
We visited most of the places marked on the visitor’s map, and even with that limited experience, we fell in love with all of it. We followed a leaf- and moss covered path flanked by giant redwoods, leading up to the indigenous forest, thick with vines and alive with the calls of birds and monkeys. (We still love the forest and the birds, but have become less charmed by the monkeys and baboons...). Water seemed to trickle around every second twist and bend. A forest like this lights up your senses, makes you feel at peace and sheltered.
The main road appeared to be “littered” with signage, sticking out at odd angles from the bushy roadside. It seemed like every establishment in this village had staked its claim to announce its proximity to the weary traveller. Crossroads had motley collections of boards giving the names of dwellings in varying degrees of legibility. Like with many small towns – you pass the “hub” of the village before you thoroughly realise that you are in it.
Even during our brief stay, we saw the Qabimbola (the Xhosa name for Hogsback) from quite a few angles and in many different moods. It was never the same once. (Qabimbola means “red clay on the face” referring to the use of the red clay found in the area to smear on the faces of the Umkwetha - young initiates, during initiation rites).
On a walk through the surrounding forest, we wandered (by chance) onto private property, where we met with a friendly stranger, who happened to be the owner of the land we were on, as well as unintended keeper of all that grows in the village. He showed us around his nursery, and his pride and joy; the azaleas. These “alien” shrubs thrive in soil with a high acidity level, and a moist climate. With a bit of nurturing, azaleas took to the acid soil of the mountain like home. The village is known for its beautiful park-like gardens, and azaleas are a striking feature of both the gardens, greens and road-sides. Garden enthusiasts from far and wide are drawn to Hogsback to view the gardens during the annual Spring festival, when the village is decked out in all her most dazzling colours and textures.
The quiet Austrian (and his wife) who took so kindly to two city slickers straying onto his property, are two of the mountain’s longest standing residents. Some used to refer to him as the godfather of his beloved hillside village – a suitable, well-earned name.
Our fascination grew daily, and by the third or fourth day we drove up to a bright yellow house which housed the estate agent. Just out of interest, we both agreed... Our hosts had mentioned that the property adjoining their's was for sale, and this knowledge was like a tantalising tingle at the back of my mind.
At first the exact location of the property seemed to be a bit of a mystery, even to the estate agent. But finally a map was found and we set off to “view” the piece of mountain land for sale. The first time we had to access the property through the neighbour’s fence, since he was the only one who seemed to have an idea of where it was. We “bundu-bashed” our way through a wattle forest, the trees packed densely and brambles scraping and hooking onto our clothes. The neighbour must have sensed my disappointment. He peered through the trees with eyes fixed on an imaginary horizon. Then he looked over his shoulder at us and said: “Judging by the lay of the land, there should be a lovely view from the place where we are standing”. “Well, maybe if you could fly” – I thought...
There was nothing truly memorable from that little expedition that could have made an impression on us. But there was that still, small voice... Back at our cottage, we both agreed, without too much thought or discussion, to make an offer to purchase. It was turned down. Our hopes were blighted. Half-heartedly, we enquired about other properties on the market, but that turned out to be another dead-end. We tried to put it behind us and enjoy the rest of our holiday, but some of the lustre had gone out of the days. When we left a few days later, I had a painful lump in my throat. We turned onto the Happy Valley road in silence and I peered out of the window with a heavy heart. The Elandsberg sloped gently to the left of us, and there, just about right at the centre of it, a heart shape stood out clearly on the face of the mountain. I stared at it in wonder, trying to hide the tears from my husband. In a rather sentimental moment I thought to myself: “that is my heart, it shall stay here, while I return to the smog and strife of the city”.
Life went on, as it always does. We got up each day, went to work, came home, cooked a nice meal, read our books, and simply went back to enjoying what the city had to offer (at a price). I can’t honestly say that I disliked living in Pretoria. It is a beautiful city. We lived in a parquet-floored old house in the small suburb of Kloofsig. Its central location and proximity to parks to walk the pooches, as well as shopping malls and highways, gave us access to much in the way of entertainment and ease of living.
At times, as I paged through one of my favourite “Country Life” magazines, I would feel a lump in my throat again, along with the familiar longing that I had known since I was a girl. I told myself that it was simply not meant to be. How often are dreams or promptings pushed to the background, because we fear to be either disappointed or embarrassed. I was still the little girl watching my mother build a thousand piece puzzle with itching fingers, but not confident enough to trust that I too, could to be part of a bigger picture.
About six months later, I was sitting at my grey corner desk, with the muffled sound of traffic in my ears. The office phone rang and I answered it, short and businesslike. It was a familiar voice and I recognised the lazy lilting tone of the lady estate agent from Hogsback. “Are you by any chance still interested in the property you looked at when you were here?” she asked. I was blown away. A window was thrown open wide somewhere and a kiss of mountain air brushed my forehead. This time it did not shut in my face again. It was time... God’s time.
Things seemed to happen rather quickly from that point on. Our offer was accepted. After a few hitches at the bank and the agonising delays of legal procedures, we received the title deed to Portion 42, Farm 4, Hogsback. We had bought ourselves a wattle forest!
I felt like the dog who had been chasing after the spinning wheels of a car, and once it came to a sudden stop right there in front of him, had no idea what to do with it. We went back a few months later, with still no real clear plan or idea of how to approach the taming of a wilderness. The property could not be accessed by car, the road being a craggy strip, ripped hastily out of the mountainside without much forethought. We parked our city car at the bottom of it and set out to explore what was now “ours”. My husband has a natural sense of direction, (unlike his wife, who could get lost in the bathtub..). We packed a simple picnic, and even discovered a small clearing, big enough to stretch out on and be lost in the sweetness of being together on the place where we dreamt of building a future.
When faced with how to make this become a reality, it seemed so overwhelming. I was tempted to withdraw again. Patience was also not a virtue which I could claim to possess. The romance seeped out of my rosy picture and left it looking rather bleak.
Fortunately my husband has always been level-headed and methodical. I was already dreaming of a quaint country cottage in a gently terraced garden, with potted herbs outside the back door, and the deep and marvellous peace of dusk in the mountains...
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| On Inesi - after clearing, where our house now stands |
But there were still some jagged rock faces to climb before we could realise our dream. It was a time of looking up, breathing deeply and "eating the elephant" one grisly bite at a time.
I’m still learning to “look up”. It remains a choice. There is always a wider view. A greater plan. And a sustaining love so deep, so wide, so high and so immeasurable, that there are no adjectives to describe it.
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